Auric Plethora
by a.ander
Summary: There is said that a sea of gold exists, somewhere across the vast expanse of blue gray waters that beats itself against the very edges of Alaegasia, guarded by creatures born from the earth with skin of emerald and ruby and sapphire. Post-Inheritance


There is said that a sea of gold exists, somewhere across the vast expanse of blue gray waters that beats itself against the very edges of Alaegasia, and that instead of spraying white foam and salty tears, it sheds waves of the most vivid emerald green. Many a men have dreamed of such an opportunity, to go on an adventure in which they throw themselves in an exciting pursuit across the seas, in search for treasures.

But no one has yet to attempt this feat, for it is told that the flaxen waves of riches are guarded by creatures born out of gems of the very earth, animals with skin like diamonds and rubies and sapphires. Some even say that if you stand upon the shores of the very edges of the kingdom long enough, and if the ocean doesn't pull you away with its strong, slippery hands, that you would be able to see from a distance, flying colors – the guardians of the fabled Auric Plethora.

* * *

><p>He had that lethargic feeling that one gets in the morning, when the mind is preoccupied with the last remaining wisps of last night's dream, unable to operate as efficiently as it should. When Eragon opened his eyes, everything seemed darker to him, the colors less vivid, as if the air had a bluish tint. And this is because even the sun had yet to arise, and so the world is suspended in some unrealistic fantasy in which everything is perfect and peaceful and blue - except he knew that outside of the confines of these early morning hours, the world would return to its original deformity of chaos.<p>

He sat up, his movements smooth and supple, like that of liquid mercury. He ruffled the back of his hair, wishing to shake away such musings and forget how messed up the world is, because now is the time of suspension and everything needs to be quiet, including his thoughts. And looking about, he noted that there was a dullness to the morning.

He did not call out for his partner of mind and heart, for she always hunted during the hours where the sun had yet to climb and rise above the trees. This is the time of day in which prey thrives, she once told him. And so he believed, for it seemed that Saphira grew just a little bit more every day. Though it would take centuries more before she would reach the equivalent of Glaedr's age in years, already was she his size. They both had grown. But neither had changed, not really. Both were now faster and stronger and less ignorant to the magic and knowledge of the world, but Saphira still bantered and Eragon still farmed.

Though 'farming' would be an incorrect term.

The Lead Rider, well – he grew flowers. Or at least, he sang them into existence.

Every day he did this, so as to relieve the pain and depression that he felt in his heart for having to leave everything he had known and loved behind. His heart, it was like a wound that kept oozing and bleeding, refusing to scar over. He had felt implosive. And so he had to do this, to sing and grow the beautiful vegetation, because it released all of his pent up feelings of despair. His emotions, they were like waves of water. Yes, they were strong currents that thrashed against his heart and mind, and the waters of his mind were rapidly rising, threatening to spill over and drown him. And so this is why he must do this every day, to take a break from his duties for just a couple of minutes, so as to release the tension and pressure.

He had to let the water drain from his conscious, or else he would feel sluggish; his body and limbs weighed down by his feelings. And so when he sang, his mouth was like a drain, and a flower would grow from the ground, as if thriving from the sunshine and raindrops that Eragon would cast upon it. But it was not rain drops, it was his tears, and this sunshine was not energy from the sun, but rather the strength of his emotions that was pouring out of his voice and into the plant. Yes, he sang flowers. Soon enough, there were fields of his plants bending and dancing in the wind, surrounding the perimeters of the citadels and towers that both he and the elves had built. And the vegetation, they would grow until they reached the edges of the surrounded forests, or until there was no longer soil beneath their roots, but sand.

_To think such feelings of depression can give birth to such beauty._

This he thought, as he stood over the balcony of his perch, staring at the creations of his lamentation. Only Saphira knew the real reasons behind his little hobby. The rest of the Riders, they thought little of it, thinking that his efforts were for the pursuit of attraction, make the place look more appealing to the eye. Eragon must have succeeded in such, though that wasn't his intention. When visitors or diplomats would come to the island for yearly visitations, they were always dumbfounded, amazed by the sight. And they would always go on and on about how they never knew that such a stunning place existed, that the stories they had heard from the others were nothing more but exaggerated tales. What stories that they spoke of, Eragon knew not, but it mattered little to him, the folklore of the people across the waters. He didn't care for their comments of wonder; he didn't care for their opinions.

He only wanted _hers - t_his was all for Arya.

He sang the sea of gilded lilies for her.

And with that thought, he felt it again, this sickening feeling in his gut, he knew he must go out and sing, to add another bit of gold to the fields of rich yellow that engulfed every open plain upon the island. So again, for it was routine, he would sing and weep for his lost chance at love, but oh so quietly, so that no one would hear him. When finished, he knew that he would cup the petals of the lily gently in his hands, whisper her name, and walk away. He always did this. And oh how stunning the sight was, the fields.

* * *

><p>It is said that there is a sea of gold that rests at the very tip of the world, where instead of waves of salt and water, there are tides of emerald green - the Auric Plethora. You must cross all of the oceans of the earth to get to it.<p>

Some say, that if you climb to the very top of the Beor Mountains, and if you wait long enough for the sun to rise in the east, you will see the sun's rays reflect off the surface of this treasured sea. And if you stare even longer, you will see the guardians of these riches, creatures born from the precious gems of the earth itself - creatures with scales of rubies and diamonds and sapphires.

* * *

><p>This was brief and quickly typed. It's not much of a story, and I understand that it's not nearly as good as some of the other author's in the Inheritance Cycle fandom, but I sort of wrote this for fun :-) I'll be honest, I didn't really try too hard so there might be a bunch of grammatical mistakes. Oh well! Feel free to leave a review and tell me what you hated about it, haha.<p> 


End file.
